


Today I Am Wearing Lacy Black Underwear

by emmaliza



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Porn, Crossdressing, Dubious Consent, F/M, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Sexual Harrassment, Slut Shaming, Underage Sex, clay is losing his shit (again), don't ask me where this fits into the continuity because i don't know, i don't even know what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “What are you playing at, Clay? What, do you think if you ruin your reputation as much as we ruined hers, you'll be just as bad off, so it won't be your fault anymore? That's not how it works. You can't fuck her back to life.”"I can try."





	

It itches. It's cheap, what Clay bought, too embarrassed to go into a proper lingerie store and too practical to waste his money on something he'll probably never wear again. It rides up in strange places and his balls keep slipping out, this sort of thing really wasn't designed for him, but that seems right. It feels cheap, dirty, tacky. That's how it's meant to feel. That's what they'd say he is if they knew.  


Walking through the halls he sees Bryce Walker, grinning at some sophomore cheerleader, who gazes up eyes wide and adoring. Clay wonders if he should catch his eye, smile, maybe even wink.  


He averts his eyes with a flush of nausea. He's fucked up, but not that fucked up.  


* * *

“You want something, Jensen?”  


Given he's knocking on the door of a car he just keyed a few days ago, it's a fair enough question. Clay shrugs. “Just to talk,” he says, and Zach doesn't look like he believes it. In truth, they probably said all they had to say to each other in front of Clay's house over Hannah's letter. The one he couldn't bring himself to read. “Can I get in?”  


“...Sure.”  


Clay helps himself into the shotgun seat, squirming a little in his uncomfortable underwear. “Nice car,” he comments.  


“Um... thanks,” says Zach. “Though it was nicer before you keyed it.”  


Clay laughs at that. Idly, he reaches across and runs his hand over the gearstick. He can't drive, he's never learned to drive, never really needed to drive – now he wonders, is there something wrong with him for that? That he's gone so long without acquiring such a basic skill for life in the American West?  


He smirks and bites his lip as he runs his thumb over the top. Clay hears someone's breath getting a little faster; whose he's not sure. The thing is, he probably would have been nice about it, if Hannah had said yes. He only did what he did because he felt rejected.  


“Dude. Jensen.” Zach snaps him out of his reverie, draws his eyes back to his face. “Do you want something?”  


Clay stops his hand over the gearstick, pausing to consider it. “No,” he says.  


And he gets back out.  


* * *

Honor Board, again, two fourteen year olds crying over who stole whose calculator or some shit. Clay takes his seat without looking like he's choosing one deliberately, and waits until Courtney is talking until he lets his hand sneak into Marcus' lap.  


He wants to see the look on Marcus' face, but he stares dead ahead, like he's bored out of his skull. Marcus tries to squirm away, but Clay only grips him tighter when he does, and there's only so much he can do without causing a scene. Clay can feel him start to harden in his palm.  


“Jensen, what the fuck?!” Marcus whispers urgently as Courtney keeps droning on. Clay doesn't even look at him. “The fuck are you doing?”  


“I'd suggest you keep your voice down,” Clay whispers back. “I can't see this looking good on the head of the Honor Board's college application.”  


In truth, he has no idea what he's doing, but they're all just teenage boys and it's not long before Marcus has given in, is rutting into Clay's palm beneath the table.  


“Is this what you wanted Hannah to do to you?” Clay whispers as one of the girls breaks into sobs loud enough to drown him out. “Did you think she was such a slut she'd jerk you off right there in the restaurant?”  


Marcus groans and curses under his breath, but doesn't answer.  


“...Well with that settled, I think you're free to go,” says Courtney.  


The freshmen stand up and so does the Honor Board, so does Clay, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans. Everyone gets up, except the one. Marcus.  


“Jensen,” he says, tugging on Clay's sleeve. “Dude.”  


And Clay looks down at him, bewildered. “What?”  


Marcus is left speechless, and Clay leaves.  


* * *

“Courtney!”  


He can see the panic behind her eyes even as she gives him her usual polite smile. “Hey Clay, what's up?” They haven't spoken since the cemetery.  


“Hey, listen – I've got this French assignment due in a couple of days, I was wondering if you could give me a hand with it?” Her friends are here, as always. “Everyone knows you're the best at French. At everything. I could really use the help?”  


The struggle is written all over her face, her self-preservation instincts versus someone asking for help with something small, something simple. Despite it all, Courtney still thinks she's a good person. She has to. It's fundamental to her identity: Courtney Crimsen is a Good Person™.  


“Um... did you want to meet at Monet's, or...?”  


Clay shakes his head. “This will probably take a bit too long for that. Several hours, probably,” he says. “You could just come over to my place. Or I could go over to yours. I've never met your dads.”  


The Courtnettes giggle slightly, and Courtney flushes and averts her eyes. “I – I'm not sure my dads would like that.”  


“No? Why shouldn't they?” More giggling, and Courtney looks completely embarrassed. “I like your sweater, by the way.” It's a light yellow colour, almost the same colour as in... Gently, he places one finger beneath her chin, guides her head back up to look at him. “It would be really nice of you.”  


Courtney leaps away from him like scalded. “I – I need to go.”  


She scurries off, books clutched close to her chest and skirt flapping behind her. Her friends seem utterly bemused. “What was that about?” asks one of them – a Kim or a Tricia, maybe, Clay doesn't really know their names. “I thought she liked you.”  


“Yeah. I dunno,” says Clay. “But I guess I don't know all her secrets.”  


* * *

Between classes, he flicks through his phone, and stumbles upon his photos. One photo.  


Really, he's already dealt with him.  


* * *

He's just about to get on his bike when he feels a hand squeeze his scrawny ass, and spins around in a panic. “Did you just–?”  


A flash of bleached hair and the raise of an eyebrow. “Please, like you haven't been waiting for me to do that all day,” says Alex, although Clay can see the flicker of self-loathing behind his eyes as he says it. He sighs. “What are you playing at, Clay? What, do you think if you ruin your reputation as much as we ruined hers, you'll be just as bad off, so it won't be your fault anymore? That's not how it works. You can't fuck her back to life.”  


Clay stares off into the distance, toward the benches where he and Hannah could just sit and talk, and not have to worry about everyone at this fucking school and all the stupid, shitty things they said (except they did, in the end, they always did).  


“I can try.”  


* * *

“The fuck are you doing here, Jensen?”  


Clay looks up from the bottom of the slide and blinks at the boy looming above him. “Could ask you the same thing, Foley.”  


“You texted me, asshole.”  


So he did. “Didn't really think you'd come,” he mutters, and Justin says nothing. A moment passes, and Clay looks up into the night sky. It's a lovely evening, warm and bright, the stars glittering.  


“What do you want?”  


Clay looks back at Justin, and smiles. “To fly.”  


Justin balls a fist by his side. “Fuck you.”  


Clay laughs. “You could at least buy me a drink first.”  


That fist swings, Justin going to hit him, but Clay ducks out of the way and catches him by the arm – he knows his reflexes aren't good enough for this – and drags him down onto the slide, until Justin's lying on top of him, until their legs are tangled together, and Clay sees him freeze, a look of fear crossing his face.  


“Don't – Don't you fucking touch me, Jensen,” he says as Clay starts to buck his hips, grinding up against him.  


“Why not?” he whispers in Justin's ear as he feels the other boy's cock start to harden against him. “Don't want the whole school thinking you're a slut?”  


Justin snarls and Clay lets out a cry of pain as his hair is pulled, hard, and his head is slammed into the bright red plastic beneath him. “Oh, _I'm_ a slut?!” Foley spits. “We all know what you've been up to. What you did in Zach's car, what you did at the Honor Board meeting. You're an even bigger slut than she was.”  


Clay laughs again. “Have to agree there,” he says. “Still. I'm not the one who gloated about fucking in the park.” A pause. “Who knows, maybe it did happen, but we got it the wrong way 'round. Maybe it was her fingerfucking you.”  


“Fuck you!” Clay knows Justin Foley is a lot stronger than him, and he's not at all surprised when he's grabbed by his shirt and rolled over onto his front. “You want to know what really happened? Fine, I'll show you, faggot.”  


He goes limp, doesn't resist at all as Justin tears his down his jeans, even as he hears the hoot of laughter as he's exposed. “Oh, that's priceless. Stealing your dead girlfriend's panties now, are you?” _Not stealing. Taking inspiration, maybe._ “You're nuts.”  


“And so should you be,” Clay mutters.  


The panties are so cheap the ass rips right in half when Justin tries to tear them off, the front still clinging to his cock. Two fingers are shoved into his mouth. “You know, I think you're meant to use actual lube for this,” he mumbles around them.  


“Shut the fuck up and suck.”  


Clay does. He doesn't mind if it hurts. Which is good, because it _does_ ; Clay has to bite his arm to smother a wail of pain as Justin's fingers shove right into him, and tears come to his eyes automatically. He imagines how horrified Hannah would be if she knew what he was doing. But he wouldn't be doing it if she hadn't sent him those fucking tapes. She thought she was going to ruin him. And she was right.  


“That's right, you fucking take it, take it like your dead slut.” Justin's fingers are rough and clumsy, they don't bring the slightest bit of pleasure. “If I'd known what a whore she was, I would have fucked her right there and then. I was trying to be a gentleman.”  


The fingers pull out of him so fast Clay's afraid his insides might come out with them. He's pulled up by the hair again and spun back around. Justin's got his jeans and his boxers around his ankles and he shoves Clay's mouth onto his crotch recklessly. Clay could just bite it off, if he wanted. “That's right, suck my dick, bitch.”  


There's not a lot of sucking involved, more just sitting there while Justin Foley fucks his throat so hard he feels like he's gonna throw up. “It's not my fucking fault,” Justin says as he grabs Clay's head tight, drives his nails into his scalp. “I just kissed her, that's all; Bryce sent the photo, not me. It's not my fault she – it's not my _fault_ –”  


When Justin comes, Clay neither spits nor swallows. He just sits there with his mouth open, letting it drip where it will.  


Foley stares down at him with a look that could be guilt, could be disgust, could be both, and Clay refuses to be ashamed. He smirks bitterly and spreads his legs wide, displaying his ruined black lacy underwear to the world.  


“Go on, Justin,” he says. “Take a picture.”  


Justin spits at him and walks away.  



End file.
